On a Different Note
by thisisforyou
Summary: John and Sherlock have an understanding. Do they? Or are they singing completely different tunes? John/Sherlock, in a manner of speaking. COMPLETE.
1. The Beginning

**A/N: Totally not sure about voice in this piece and fairly sure I slipped up tense-wise a few times because I wasn't sure which I was writing in. Review and let me know what you think, won't you?**

_The Beginning - John_

John was just as surprised as anyone the first time Sherlock displayed signs of romantic affection for him. Yes, it all seemed very sudden, but people never tell the story of the months of angst and longing before the get-together. They tell the story of the moment, the collage of stand-out memories that add together to form the picture they want others to see. And that moment – that series of firsts – all happened rather quickly.

It was about one o'clock on a Wednesday morning when Sherlock first said 'I love you'. John still thinks of it as a Tuesday, though, probably because he hadn't gone to bed the night before. But Sherlock likes to be precise. _Technically_, he would always correct him, it was Wednesday morning by the time the conversation occurred. Well, I suppose if we're being _technical_, he didn't exactly say _I love you_. The exact words, just to keep him happy, were in fact "John, I think I'm in love with you." But Sherlock doesn't just _think_ anything, he can't cope with that. He has to _know_, to be absolutely 100% sure. John pointed this out to him, to which he smiled and said, "Okay. I'm in love with you."

Which is, of course, more or less the same thing.

Sherlock's not the type to hang around in agony for months and not say anything. We can be fairly certain, then, that the 'I love you' was the result of a fairly recent revelation. After he'd realised he was in love with John, though, he said later, he also realised that he'd actually been in love with him for quite some time without knowing what it was. He'd never really felt it before, he'd say.

So further to the months of angst and longing, most of the work on that count was done single-handedly by John. There were moments when Sherlock would be unhappy without quite knowing why, naturally, but there wasn't the constant _oh-my-God-I'm-in-love-with-my-flatmate _that was being experienced in John's head. And most of the rest of him, come to that. He'd had plenty of time to get his head around the fact that not only did he completely, utterly _want_ Sherlock, any way that Sherlock wanted to give himself to him, but that Sherlock would in fact probably never want to give himself to him at all. And that was fine; Sherlock couldn't help being an asexual sociopath. It was all fine. Kind of.

But Sherlock's little revelation completely pulled the rug out from under his feet. Yup, he landed – _splat _– on his arse. His heart took a moment out from its normal duty of pushing blood around his body to process the news and then started some obscure kind of victory dance around his navel just in case he'd forgotten about it. Well, he hadn't. In fact, he was _very_ aware of it.

John's first 'I love you' came about five seconds after his heart had collapsed, exhausted, at the bottom of his chest and left his brain in the peace and quiet to think about how to reply. Well, there's only one thing to say when your flatmate – who you've been in love with for months, remember – suddenly confesses he loves you. He'll always deny the ineloquence of his confession and if Sherlock happens to mention the pitch of his voice at the time, well, just ignore him, it was perfectly normal. It may not have been the steadiest of voices, but it was not even a semitone higher than any other day. All he managed to say, though, was "I, um, love you too."

But it got the message across. And where John was used to relationships that happened slowly, with meeting someone and then dating them once or twice and then kissing them, dating them some more, possibly a bit of sex and _then_ maybe the 'I love you', in this case they'd waited long enough. Both of them, even if Sherlock hadn't known until that morning what he was waiting _for_. Well, this was it.

And from there it was easy. Sherlock made the first move, but then Sherlock's always been a leader and John is quite content to follow. He didn't care so much how it happened, but after barely a minute of cursing himself for not being the smooth story-book romantic hero he'd always been when he'd dared imagine this scene in his head, lips touched lips and that first, too, was duly dispatched. While John's heart had assumed itself fully recovered from its earlier fright, this proved too much for it to bear; it leapt right up into his mouth and crazily attempted to actually jump out of him and into Sherlock. Well, that was fine. He could have it if he wanted it.

It took a grand total of ninety seconds for Sherlock to have John completely wrapped around whichever finger he might choose to manipulate. It was something of a skill of his, and John knew that; he didn't mind. Because at that moment, while the two were busily climbing on top of each other and working their way towards another first, John loved Sherlock and Sherlock had just admitted to the same feelings and what else could possibly matter?

* * *

><p><em>The Beginning - Sherlock<em>

There had been an inkling of something the very first time Sherlock had seen John, seen the psychosomatic limp and the look in those hazel eyes that said _I have to do something, now, or I may possibly explode from boredom. _Well, the world's first consulting detective knows that feeling. And of course being the utterly selfish sociopath that he is, he decided to fix the limp and re-introduce action into the ex-army doctor's life not because it would _help_John, but because someone slightly _closer_ who felt like they owed him a favour would come in handy when _he_ got bored.

People think Sherlock Holmes is a great guy. A genuinely nice person. They talk to two or three of the people he's helped – maybe Angelo, accused of a murder he hadn't even considered committing, or Mrs Hudson, terrified of the man she'd married once upon a time before he'd turned into a violent and slightly murderous monster – and they think, _now here's a man who likes to help people._

Bzzt – wrong. Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less about Angelo, besides the fact that the location of his restaurant comes in handy for surveillance every now and then and it's a quick walk when he can't be bothered coercing someone else into cooking for him. And Mrs Hudson? Well, she was nice enough but she _fussed_ something wicked, and while his rent was criminally low that was just a side-effect. No; Sherlock had proved that Angelo was innocent because it was ridiculously obvious that Lestrade was chasing the wrong guy and the real killer was sitting comfortably at home with his soon-to-be late wife and children, and when Mrs Hudson had sent him an email with a slightly different subject line he'd thought it would be a break from London's August monotony and he'd never been to Florida. Helping people was purely coincidental to his own entertainment.

But there are times when being thought compassionate and helpful comes in handy for an adrenaline junkie that masquerades as a consulting detective, and so you'll never catch Sherlock spouting the real reasons behind the happiness of anyone he's accidentally helped. And having people believe they owe you a favour, well, he won't deny that that helps too.

Anyway. John started like that. Sherlock saw the way he held his cane and his back and saw immediately that this would be a very handy person to have on call. To have the doctor actually _living _with him, a constant source of entertainment, would be most convenient indeed.

And it was, of course. By the end of the second day of their acquaintance John had already praised Sherlock more than everyone else he knew put together _and_ probably saved his life to boot. He still has the pill he almost took, hidden away in a drawer somewhere, and one day he'll take it to Bart's and prove to himself that he was right.

But after a few months Sherlock started to worry. Having John around was not only handy when he was bored, he actually genuinely liked the company, which was so strange in itself that he had to keep the association going just to find out why. It was probably because John praised him so often. No-one ever did that.

He'd known for a while that John was developing… romantic feelings for him. He'd been disgusted at first; three months of happiness and then John had to go and ruin it by wanting it to turn into something else. Then he'd realised it kept the doctor around and he hadn't minded so much. Then he'd noticed that it was frustrating him, that he was working up the courage to either admit his feelings (dull) or leave (unacceptable).

Well, Sherlock is an expert at reading people, at knowing exactly what to do and say to make them do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, to the ends of the earth and forever. And he knows he can have John completely under his spell, can totally and irrevocably capture the good doctor until he'd damn well _die_ to keep him happy, just by saying a few words. Call it an experiment, if you like.

"John," he slipped into casual conversation as the doctor bound up a gash in his arm after another midnight rooftop chase, "I think I'm in love with you."

Ta-da. Game. Set. Match. If Doctor John H Watson put a bullet in an elderly cabbie to save Sherlock the night after they met, what would he do for his – the word came in his head in John's voice, oddly enough, he was the one who said it last – boyfriend? His lover, his significant-other? It was an interesting question.

And Sherlock found himself caught up in the way John _wanted_ him, the way his hand gripped tightly in the detective's curls as though afraid he was going to run away, the other hand on his hip pulling him closer and still closer like he wanted to actually climb inside his chest. He's observed people in serious relationships, people (dare he say it?) _in love_, and he thinks he's got the bodily reactions down pretty well. The slight hitch in the breath as he waited for John's response, followed by the sharp exhale as he eloquently replies, so typically, "I, um, love you too."

_Well, duh. _But Sherlock knows that people in love don't think rationally (don't ask how. Have you _seen_ anyone in love?) so he feigns relief. And then? Well, then John's eyes flickered to his lips, and that was as good as a neon _kiss-me-now_ sign, so Sherlock leant in and obliged; he sped his breathing up and clutched John to him possessively. He wasn't sure, that first night, if this was going to work; he knows he can make himself cry or scream if it's important, but he'd never tried this before.

He's still not sure quite how he managed it, but he did; managed to lose his wits enough to physically prove his apparent attraction to the other man while keeping them about him enough to act the part, too. And as he lay with the short doctor in his arms, sweat cooling on both their naked bodies with the sheets pulled up around them, John doesn't have to whisper _don't go_ for Sherlock to know he wants them to fall asleep like this. He needs a shower, they both do, but for John, right now, Sherlock will do anything.

Lying in wait for a time – not too far from now – when John's convinced enough of Sherlock's affections to relax a bit and get used to the old consulting detective again, the one who doesn't cook or cuddle so much, and Sherlock can start the experiment properly.

How far will John go for him? The possibilities are limitless.

**A/N: Aha! I've been reading a lot of fluff and slash lately, and… no, I don't think Sherlock's a sociopath either. But what if he is? Completely and utterly manipulative? If I am coerced enough (reviews usually do that job pretty well) I may be convinced to do a second chapter ('the end' as opposed to 'the beginning') for when it all falls apart and John realises how badly he's been taken advantage of. **

**I seem to be dancing around Sherlock/John so much at the moment without ever writing it properly. I'm probably scared I'll make a hash of it. I'm not sure how my rape-recovery slashiness is working for **_**As Far As I'd Go**_**, if you're reading that. Should be up in a bit but I have exams starting tomorrow (insert huge panic attack here) so can't promise anything. Should at least pretend to study.**

**Review please. Go on. Make my day. I dare you.**

**-for you!**


	2. The End

**A/N: So this is longer than part one – I couldn't resist some cute fluffy stuff before I went into the actual 'end'. I'm not sure what kind of hormones are charging through my body at the moment but for the past few weeks I've been completely consumed by how **_**pretty**_** everything is, and how much I love everything from my pet turtle to Benedict Cumberbatch's nose. Hence my little rant, hope you enjoy. The end was really, **_**really**_** hard to write, and I'll probably take it down, rework it some and then repost it a few times in the next few weeks, so I'd appreciate your feedback on how I can improve it. I know I had a few tense issues because once again I'm not quite sure how to tense-ify Sherlock's POV… I got a bit lost. Ta!**

**Love and kisses,  
>-for you!<strong>

_The End – John_

There were so many things John loved about his relationship with Sherlock. He wrote them down once, meant to show it to the detective but chickened out and threw it into the fire.

There was the way his lover – God, he still couldn't get over the way he could use that word when describing _Sherlock_ – sat at the kitchen table of a morning, hunched over black coffee with two sugars, top teeth dragging slightly over his bottom lip, staring at John with this sort of _content_ look on his face.

And there was the noises he made as he fell asleep sometimes, although if you asked him he'd deny it vehemently. Well, of course you didn't hear it Sherlock, you were very nearly asleep.

There were things he was sure the detective only did because he could tell John wanted him to, even if John hadn't realised he wanted it until it was happening; the feeling present as a warmth through his entire body that felt so _right_ it was intoxicating. But then there were things that he was sure were just Sherlock, Sherlock wanting or feeling or just _being_.

He thought quite often back when he was lusting in solitude that it was completely alien and different, the way he felt for Sherlock. He'd been in love before, or at least he'd thought he had. But this was different. John's no perfectionist and he's not shallow, but there are parts of the human body that he would not under any circumstances consider attractive. Like feet – God, they were nasty. He'd heard of foot fetishes before and that was just _weird_. It probably stemmed from the fact that his own feet were rather odd-looking, short and wide with stubby little toes. Anyway he'd never been able to bear feet in general. The same principle probably applied to noses – he didn't like his own, big and slightly bulbous, and so he'd never been able to find attraction in anyone else's, no matter how big or otherwise it may have been.

And _bums_. What was it with other people's obsessions with each other's arses? He'd appreciated the odd one before, when someone extremely toned-looking stepped in front of him at just the right angle, but only _clothed_. Naked butts were just so childish and _juvenile_ and how could that possibly be sexy?

But John found himself so pathetically attracted to Sherlock's nose, pale and straight and strong, the largish feature in that fine-boned face that made it masculine, that from an early stage in his infatuation with the detective he'd _really_ wanted to lick it. And he'd found when he lay in bed, shut his eyes and allowed his fantasies to overtake his mind that the fantasy he focussed on was Sherlock stretched out naked, not moving while John licked his nose and his incredibly cupid-bowed lips and his eyebrows and every glorious inch of him. And then he'd realised that he'd spend an enormous amount of time lingering over Sherlock's feet. They were as elegant as the rest of him, long and narrow and pale, and John had imagined licking the soft, crinkly skin of his high insteps and around up to his gorgeous ankles. It bothered John sometimes how casual and _uncaring_ Sherlock was with his body, launching it around and scratching it and just not paying attention to it. Didn't he know it was beautiful? It was supposed to be treasured, to be worshipped.

And Sherlock's arse – well. That was… it was thin and soft and _ticklish_, and it somehow managed to be the complete opposite of juvenile. His extremely _adult-_looking rear was definitely one of the sexiest things about him. John wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.

But when Sherlock had finally allowed John to live out this fantasy, stretching out for him and closing his eyes and just breathing gently, he'd found it to be a completely non-sexual experience. It wasn't about lust or desire somehow, but just about affection and _loving_ Sherlock so completely there wasn't an inch of him he didn't want to explore and discover and make his own. He'd expected to get hard – he'd expected _Sherlock_ to get hard – but the detective just lay there and took it, breathing slowly and smiling a soft, happy smile, and John had been too overcome with _love_ to even think about sex. When he'd finally sated himself with that glorious body he'd lain down next to him on the sitting-room floor and held him close, and Sherlock had clung onto him and not let go for hours.

Maybe that was the best thing. The way sometimes Sherlock would _need_ him and suddenly stop whatever he was doing and pull him close and just hold him for a while, breathing heavily like he was trying to _absorb_ him. Knowing that Sherlock wasn't doing this just because John defended him sometimes and bought milk and he didn't want him to leave, but because in some capacity the detective _needed_ him and loved him.

He loved best the way that their relationship didn't have to be about sex. That it was, a lot of the time, and that was incredible, but it didn't have to be. It was about how they completed each other in every possible way, about how John could finish Sherlock's sentences just as easily as Sherlock could finish John's, about how incredible it felt not to be loved by someone else but to be loved by _this _someone else.

He supposes now that that was all part of the plan. He's not sure, still, quite _why_ things happened the way they did, right from the moment he first realised that the slight bulge in his trousers was actually there because of Sherlock till right now, but he knows that every single thing about those months was the way it was because Sherlock wanted it to be. And every time someone even mentions the name _Holmes_ – which they do quite often, because the consulting detective is quite the topic of conversation these days, he has to curl into a tight ball and cry violently to stop himself from throwing up or exploding.

It was all very sudden, like all those _Road Runner_ cartoons when Wily Coyote is so focussed on running that he doesn't realise he's run right off the edge of a cliff. He'd been meeting a friend at the pub and he came home late and maybe he was slightly tipsy; either way he was more than a little horny and he came into the sitting room to find Sherlock at the kitchen table doing something unmentionable with – well, John didn't want to know what it was. He'd trilled his greetings in a voice that was definitely an octave or so higher than his usual, and Sherlock had looked up and yes, he'd definitely been tipsy because he hadn't even noticed the vague flash of irritation on the detective's face that had quickly been rearranged into a smile. "You've been drinking," his lover stated – he said to John that he had begun stating the obvious because he was never sure whether what was obvious to him was obvious to other people, and so he was just checking that John had noticed it. It had taken a while to convince him that yes, 'John, I'm back' _was_ fairly self-explanatory and yes, he could probably work that one out on his own. Anyway on this occasion John knew he'd been drinking and Sherlock stating the obvious was amusing enough to elicit a giggle from him. "Go to bed," the consulting detective had dismissed haughtily, turning back to his test tubes.

But John Watson can be rather persistent when he's had one too many. "Only if you come with me," he said suggestively, waggling his eyebrows until he felt like they might wriggle off and pulling off his jumper. Sherlock rolled his eyes, apparently completely oblivious to his partner shrugging out of his shirt.

"You're drunk," he said boredly. "I'm busy." So John had come up behind the stoic consulting detective and kissed his neck, little fluttery kisses that usually make Sherlock squirm and immediately stop any present tasks that draw attention away from them. But this time Sherlock didn't react. Not even a little bit.

That's when John sobered up. Completely. Just like that he was wide-awake and present and serious. Sherlock not responding was something that hardly ever happened. He could remember precisely three times when he'd experimented – he liked that word mostly because it was Sherlock's – by kissing him and playing with his fingers and stroking his neck while he was on a case or in the middle of an experiment and the detective had ignored him like this. And even then there'd been a hitch in his breath, a slight tremor of the hands until Sherlock had turned around and ordered John to stop distracting him.

Now there was no change whatsoever. What was going on? John moved until he stood between the detective and the table, sucking in his gut to squeeze into the gap. "Sherlock?" he touched the sides of that pale jaw, angling his face until he was sure he had the other man's attention. He searched those incredible eyes for a sign of the softness and affection he'd never not found in them, and saw nothing but irritation. Desperate now, he bent forwards and kissed him, pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and caressed his soft palate. The detective pulled away.

Suddenly Wily Coyote had looked down and realised there was nothing under his feet, tried to backpedal furiously but started to fall.

* * *

><p><em>The End – Sherlock<em>

He has to admit that his plan backfired somewhat spectacularly, and that if he's completely honest with himself he may not have completely thought it through to the end. The aim of the plan had been to keep John around, and now all of the doctor's belongings had been moved out of the flat and they hadn't seen each other for at least a week. Not that you'd notice the absence of John's things, really; all of the clutter about the place had always been Sherlock's.

He knew he'd really hurt John. He tried to feel bad for a bit before he accepted that it was useless. Guilt just wasn't in his emotional vocabulary. The pain that had him prostrated on the sofa, unmoving, hungry but too comatose to move, hazing in and out of sleep, was for his own loss.

He'd tried to get into the morgue, but Molly's on holiday at the moment and the stiff, upright lady in charge wouldn't let him in. Molly had been sick once and Sherlock had muscled his way in purely because of _Doctor _Watson following him around. At first glance people take Doctor Watson a lot more seriously than Mister Holmes. And they'd escaped the attention of patrol cars a few times by Sherlock quickly pushing the doctor against a wall and snogging him; the police vehicle that had been so avidly pursuing a man in a black coat and another in a white jumper now shouted a dismissive 'faggots!' out the window to the two men – one in an impeccable suit, the other a red shirt and combat slacks, with outer layers of clothing hanging off their arms – having at each other in the middle of London.

And of course John cared about him, and that felt nice. Sebastian had made contact with them again once and as soon as he'd seen their clasped hands in the restaurant he'd dropped his mocking, superior air and treated Sherlock like an _equal_. It was good to always have someone to fall back on who gave him everything without ever asking why.

He'd half-expected pretending to love John to be annoying, to constantly watch what he was doing in an attempt to be more considerate, to always have to give him a 'cuddle' (_cuddle_ was John's word, and the few times Sherlock had used it had sounded so strange he'd soon desisted) when either of them got home, to hold hands and spend time together doing waste-of-time couple-y things, to always be thinking about how John would react to things and how John would want _him_ to react to things, to do a few unexpected things every now and then so that John thought he needed him. But most of it hadn't been. Regulating his sleep patterns had been difficult – John got grumpy when Sherlock tried to snake into bed beside him at three in the morning – but he had to admit it actually felt quite refreshing to wake up rested, and that lying there with John tucked under his arm breathing steadily was extremely conducive to good solid thinking.

Not that there hadn't been moments when the façade had been a real struggle, but he'd carried it off impeccably. He was already a master at giving his own emotions the back seat. But that one night John had been drunk and he must have misjudged just _how_ drunk he was, because he'd thought he wouldn't notice if the subtle signs were missing and the experiment he'd been working on was _important_ to the case he was trying to solve so he couldn't even pretend to be distracted. And then suddenly John had noticed, something had clicked in that mind and he'd stuttered a few incoherent syllables before throwing up in the sink sobbing something about how every moment of total bliss had been a lie.

Sherlock was about to hitch up the I-love-John face again and say that not all of it had been a lie, then he'd realised that it had, then he'd thought well if the rest of it had been a lie he might as well lie about this too and then he thought why was he even bothering?

He misses John now, though. In a self-centred sort of a way that meant if John were here, he'd have a cup of tea in his hand and probably have his head in John's stocky lap being petted like a cat while watching reality television or betting John who the killer was in a made-for-tv crime movie. The thing he loved about that game was that while he knew criminals, John knew television, and so the chances were fairly even.

His phone chimes in his jacket pocket and he smiles at how John doesn't wait to be asked anymore, just dives right in and fishes it out for him. After a while he remembers that John isn't here, remembers why, snorts disgustedly and digs it out himself.

_You've lost something. –Mycroft_

No freaking duh. His brother is usually free from humanity's curse of constantly needing to state the obvious, but apparently tonight he's suffering from some sort of relapse. He's lost John. He'd quite like to be able to cry, to positively _howl_ until Mrs Hudson comes running or someone calls noise control. He sniffs and tries to build up the wisps of emotion inside him into some kind of tornado he can unleash, but the little clouds refuse to gather and he gives up. Crying, he's found, is oddly satisfying. Not being able to hurts like hell. And he's not sure anymore why he's hurting, because every time he thinks about it he gets a different answer. He thinks of John licking his feet and it hurts. He thinks of John punching Anderson and it hurts. He thinks of where John is now, probably still comatose with the shock of having his perfect world so spectacularly destroyed, and it hurts.

After a few more hours of this _nothing_ he picks up his phone, deletes the text from Mycroft and sends one to John.

_I miss you. I'm so sorry. I need a cuddle. -SH_

**A/N: Yeah, okay. No more. Feedback please and I will love you... **

**-for you!**


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